


Bitter Skin

by none_the_wiser



Category: The Boys (TV 2019)
Genre: Biting, Love/Hate, M/M, One Shot, but a charming one, but not really, butcher is an asshole, hughie is so done, i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:15:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23876023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/none_the_wiser/pseuds/none_the_wiser
Summary: Butcher’s being an asshole. Nothing new, really.
Relationships: Billy Butcher/Hughie Campbell
Comments: 2
Kudos: 162





	Bitter Skin

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this by accident. Then I translated it into English bc I was bored. Then amazing [masterassassin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/masterassassin/pseuds/masterassassin) made it readable bc unlike me she’s literate (<3 )
> 
> hope you like it! 
> 
> This story in russian is [here](https://ficbook.net/readfic/9161330)

A date. Yeah, right.

Butcher dragged him into one of those filthy pubs that make you crave a shower the minute you walk in. Something crunched under their feet – either the famous garlic croutons, the smell of those was very strong in the air, even a few blocks away from here, or broken glass. The table surface was shockingly sticky – you put a glass on it and then you never tear it off again. That must have been the reason the owner forked out coasters, but judging by the tattered edges of those weary things they were in use since the day this glorious establishment opened.

To the fair question “What the hell, Butcher?” Billy confidently replied: “The beer’s good, and I know the bartender.” Translated from Butcher’s very own language into colloquial English, “the beer is cheap, and I fucked the bartender.” Couldn't get any better than that, huh.

Butcher’s language was a wild mishmash of presumably cockney and dirty street slang, in which the unprintable version of the female genitalia was a universal synonym for everything and the basis of word formation. For example, in the morning Hughie was called a stupid cunt and kicked out of bed, but by the evening he already reached the rank of a good cunt and was asked out for a “romantic” dinner. And, although it was still possible to tolerate the lexicon itself, it seemed unlikely to get used to the fact that practically nothing of what Butcher ever says was true. 

The only thing that could be called romantic in this meeting was that, for once, Hughie was not smeared from head to toe with bloody ketchup.

And now, Butcher, perhaps a little bit too drunk, was back on his usual passionate ramblings about the supes and how exactly he would like to deal with each of the Seven, paying particular attention to the details and gorey nuances of the planned slaughter. Hughie no longer listened. With a bit of amazement he was silently pondering what he was doing here in this disgusting place, with this rough man in the most idiotic Hawaiian shirt. He could have gone bowling with Annie, for example.

Butcher’s beard was scratchy, his huge hands would leave colorful bruises all over his body. Annie was cute, with her hair unbelievably soft, clear and poreless skin like porcelain. She wouldn’t brusquely grab his ass, and kissing her was rather pleasant. She had nothing to do with Butcher at all, except for the fact that they both could easily kill Hughie in seconds, without even breaking a sweat. Perhaps by getting involved in a relationship, if one could even call it that, with the most dangerous people in the world, Hughie was sublimating his suicidal tendencies, sort of. Dad was right, he certainly should’ve visited a therapist, but now it was too late. He was in over his head; best he could do was relax and try to have fun. It just didn’t come to relaxing very often.

When Billy’s obscene info vomit was over, he silently stared at one point somewhere behind Hughie’s left shoulder and began selflessly picking his nose. Hughie absently noted to himself that Billy’s funny little nose had some really huge nostrils. The bridge of said nose was decorated with a crimson abrasion covered with a grated crust. Knowing Billy at some point he was going to tear it off on purpose, and the wound would bleed again. If you forget for a second (though you shouldn’t forget about such things, ever) that Billy was a psycho killer and master manipulator bent on revenge in his forties, most of the time he behaved as an ill-mannered and extremely aggressive kid.

At the same time, like all children and psychopaths, Butcher could be frighteningly charming. He showered the overly caring waitress, who would run up to him every now and then to ask if they needed anything else, in fancy compliments that caused a delicate blush on the flabby cheeks of that seen-it-all beauty and forced Hughie to grit his teeth. At some point, he realized that he couldn’t even get drunk on the tasteless watery beer they were served here and not for the lack of trying. He was too tense and angry.

Butcher heavily slammed Hughie’s knee under the table and headed to the bathroom to take a leak, which he announced proud and loud, and burped as if to punctuate the end of the sentence. Hughie grabbed his phone and rushed through his incoming messages. Dad was timidly asking if he’s going to come back home any time soon, and Annie, more in emojis than in actual text, was playfully asking about his plans for the night, she said she was bored. Frenchie wanted to know if Butcher enjoyed dirty talk in bed. He considered replying to Annie with something like “please come save me, I’m so scared” and sending the coordinates of the creepy pub. To dad – he wanted to beg for forgiveness as he was an awful, awful son and never listened to his wise advice and grew up such a moron. Frenchie he’d like to kindly ask him to go fuck himself using some words from Billy’s dictionary.

In the end, Hughie pulled himself together and made the only decision that seemed right to him – to bail out cowardly and go home to sleep. He would never have the courage to tell Butcher off, no matter how much of an asshole he was. He threw two crumpled twenties onto the table, the beer wasn’t even that cheap after all, and headed for the exit, where he was intercepted by the man of his nightmares. He frowned, puzzled. “Hey, what’s the hurry?”

“I.. uh… I have things… to do,” mumbled Hughie rather uncertain and tried to sneak to the exit again. Butcher, all tall and broad shoulders, blocked the door with his powerful body. Fully aware it’s not going to work, Hughie tried to make another excuse anyway. “My old man has already called all the morgues and hospitals. Listen, I gotta show up home for the sake of his sanity.”

“Cut the horseshit, Hughie. You didn’t care about that ten minutes ago and you sure as fuck don’t do now either. I thought we’re on a fucking date, so I’m going all out, I put on my best shirt, by the way, and you decide to dump me. What I think is that you’re skipping out to meet up with your star girl, pop it in her shining cu…”

“So  _ this _ is your best shirt,” Hughie interrupts. 

“What. You don’t like it?” 

“No, it’s fine. Uh, keep going.” 

For a minute straight there’s such a deep confusion on Butcher’s face – pure poetry, but the magical moment couldn’t last long – it was quite difficult to embarrass Billy. He came a little closer, poked Hughie with a finger in his chest and uttered in a threatening tone: “Don’t try to fuck me over, Hughie. I can see you through, you little shit. And I like this shirt.” 

Butcher smelled of cigarette smoke, booze and suspiciously expensive perfume, a familiar mix that would always short some circuits in Hughie’s brain; he wanted to run as far as possible, but his knees felt treacherously weak. Yet, whatever the distance between them, it would be too close anyway. Hughie swallowed hard.

“Uh, listen, I also thought it was a date. You just kept going on about Homelander and Black Noir, and I thought that maybe you don’t mind stirring up a super threesome with these two. ”

“Are you mental? And what should I talk about anyway? Your beautiful blue eyes that make me lose my mind, that skinny arse of yours that robbed me of my sleep?” 

Somehow Butcher almost looked hurt and that was… odd. That oddity made something inside Hughie’s chest turn upside down and tremble, he felt his heart rate increase. “Let’s get out of here,” he finally managed to say as he realized he was staring for indecently too long. 

“What, need a ride to the supes dorm?” Butcher grinned wryly. 

“No, your place.” 

***

Butcher’s best shirt ended up on the floor pretty quick, although in Hughie’s humble opinion it belonged in a dumpster. 

Butcher was not even half as drunk as he seemed in the pub. He kissed roughly, as if rushing into the fight, and Hughie’s mouth was his archenemy. He bit and then licked the wounds he inflicted. His pressure crushed any resistance that Hughie did not even think to offer, and knocked out all thoughts from Hughie’s head. That he will never forget the warmth of the blood sprays on his face. The fact that the man pushing him into a dusty sofa with his hot body crushed all of his timid hopes to ever return to his quiet lifestyle, which he once actually liked. The quick thought that, even though said sofa in the middle of the almost empty living room wasn’t particulary bad or something, it would be way more convenient for two six-foot men to fuck on a bed, thank you. 

It’s not about the end result, it’s all about the process itself – Hughie had suddenly seen it crystal clear. Butcher wanted it dirty and uncomfortable, with great difficulty for everyone involved, and he probably really expected every time that Hughie would push him away and rush off, and he himself would give thousands of reasons for that every damn day. Maybe subconsciously he wanted it. Maybe that was his way, perverted as it was, to show that he cared. It seemed like he was giving Hughie the freedom of choice: leave him or stay, oh fuck just leave for your own good, and constantly he was surprised that Hughie would chose to stay after all. 

Hughie must have completely lost his mind. That or his instinct of self-preservation had failed completely, because he also bit back, wherever he had to – the neck, and the shoulders, and when he moaned, or to be precise – whined pathetically and way too loudly, and Billy laughed, covered his mouth with his palm – he snapped at his finger. Butcher grimaced, and for a second Hughie was pleased that he, too, was able to sting.

Predator instinct as it is; what if it’s something contagious and sexually transmitted? Hughie recalls pressing the detonator button, and then Translucent being blown into bloody porridge, smashed along the walls of the dimly lit basement, but most of it ended up on Hughie’s face and clothes. He did that before Butcher washed smears of blood off his face and suddenly greedily dug into his lips, and then laughed like a madman, looking at his dismayed face. So no, it’s not transmitted, it was always in him, and Butcher was right again when he said: “You’re a fucking killer, Hughie. Just like the rest of us.”

They were lying on the sofa, as if stuck together, with sweat, come and saliva, still in each other, or rather, Butcher in him, and Hughie thought that he was wrong about something. Already falling into slumber, he gently bit Billy’s shoulder, and then kissed it; the skin was smooth and slightly bitter in taste. Butcher, displeased, grumbled something about a spiteful twat that could probably use the shower, but Hughie did not move. Yeah no, he had no fucking choice.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
